In the midst of the conflict, the heroes, I stood,
Or pass’d with slow step through the wounded and dying,
And I resign’d myself to sit by the wounded and soothe them, or silently watch the dead,
That was the sort of work I always did with the most relish.

Nothing can ever diminish my admiration for our heroic doctors. Oh, how they did work and wrestle with death! Each case had its peculiarities, and needed some new adaptation. The typical good doctor of the army united rare sacrifice with deep emotional, sympathetic qualities—would adapt himself to conditions—was never a medical dogmatist. The young surgeons of the army—such a power!—and so philosophic, too—with minds so open and free—with hands fit for any emergency!

They would not resent advice, even from me. They would be apt to say—well, that is new, and it will not hurt to try. I learnt thus a good deal of hospital wisdom, welcomed by the surgeons as by the soldiers—very grateful to me. The doctors would most times leave the boys absolutely in my hands.

Straight and swift to my wounded I go,
Bearing the bandages, water and sponge,
Gazing desperate on the torn bodies,
Some are so young, some suffer so much.
I go from bedside to bedside,
I dress a wound in the side, deep, deep,
I dress the perforated shoulder, the foot with the bullet-wound,
From the stump of the arm, the amputated hand, I undo the clotted lint,
These and more I dress with impassive hand.

How honest and direct the private soldiers were, how superior, in the main, to their officers. They would freely unbosom to me, tell me of their experiences, perhaps go into minutest details—always, however, as if everything was a matter of fact, was of no value—as if nothing was of enough significance to be bragged of. Their stories justified themselves—did not need to be argued about. 

Some of the poor young chaps, away from home for the first time in their lives, hunger and thirst for affection; this is sometimes the only thing that will reach their condition. Emanating ordinary cheer and magnetism, I supply often to some of these dear suffering boys that which nor doctors, nor medicines, nor skill, nor any routine assistance can give. I succeed and help more than by medical nursing, or delicacies, or gifts of money, or anything else.

I am more than nurse, more than parent or neighbor,
I sit quietly by, I remain faithful, I do not give out,
This arm, this hand, this voice, have nourish’d, rais’d, restored,
By the cot in the hospital reaching lemonade to a feverish patient,
To life recalling many a prostrate form.

With dear or critical cases I generally sit by the restless all the dark night,
The restless sink in their beds, they fitfully sleep.
I stand in the dark with drooping eyes by the worst-suffering and the most restless,
I pass my hands soothingly to and fro a few inches from them;
I find deep things, unreckoned by current print or speech—
It is perhaps the greatest interchange of magnetism human relations are capable of.

I get very much attached to some of them, and many of them have come to depend on seeing me, and having me sit by them a few minutes, as if for their lives.
Every sick and wounded soldier is dear to me as a son or brother. Often they seem very near to me, even as my own children or younger brothers. I make no bones of petting them just as if they were—have long given up formalities and reserves in my treatment of them.
Many a soldier’s loving arms about this neck have cross’d and rested,
Many a soldier’s kiss dwells on these bearded lips.

Lewy Brown, so good, so affectionate—when I came away, he reached up his face, I put my arm around him, and we gave each other a long kiss, half a minute long. (Dear child, remember you me? Remember you who kissed you while you lay so pale and lonesome in your cot?)

John A. Holmes had not had any medical attention since he was brought there, so I sent for the doctor. He seemed to have entirely given up and lost heart, had not a cent of money, not a soul here he knew or cared about, except me. He said he would like to buy a drink of milk, when the woman came through with milk. I gave him a little change I had. Trifling as this was, he was overcome and began to cry.
I saw as I looked that it was a case for ministering to the affection first, and other nourishment and medicines afterward. I sat down by him without any fuss; talked a little; soon saw that it did him good; led him to talk a little himself; got him somewhat interested.

Holmes told me I had saved his life. It was one of those things that repays a soldiers’ hospital missionary a thousandfold—one of the hours he never forgets. I found myself loving him like a son; he used to kiss me good night. He got well, he passed out with the crowd, went home, the war was over. We never met again.
Oh! I could tell you a hundred such tales. What a volume of meaning, what a tragic poem in every one of those sick wards! Yes, in every individual cot. How the poor fellows would cling to the last—crave hope, cheer, sunlight.

I have witnessed hundreds of deaths,
The great crop reaped by the mighty reapers—typhoid, dysentery, and inflammations—
Many a mother’s son amid strangers, passing away untended there,
For the crowd of the badly hurt was great, and much for nurse to do, and much for surgeon.
As a rule it seems just a matter of course,
Met with indifference at the last, and with apathy, or unconsciousness.

I bend to the dying lad, his great bright eyes open, a half-smile gives he me. It is useless to talk to him, as with his sad hurt—has to be constantly dosed with morphine—and the utter strangeness of every object, face, etc., the poor fellow is like some frighten’d, shy animal. When I ask him how he feels, he is able just to articulate, “I feel pretty bad yet, old man.”
This dear young man close at hand—I do not know his past life. But what I do know, and what I saw of him, he was a noble boy. I felt he was one I should get very much attached to.

Adieu O soldier, O tan-faced prairie-boy, poor dear son,
Though you were not my son, I felt to love you as a son,
What short time I saw you sick and dying there;
Poor boy! I never knew you,
Yet I think I could not refuse this moment to die for you, if that would save you.

I have nourish’d the wounded and sooth’d many a dying soldier. Upon this breast has many a dying soldier lean’d to breathe his last. And all I could free—all that could flow out of me—was theirs, theirs. I always kept an outward calm—I had to, it was necessary, I would have been useless if I hadn’t. But no one could tell what I felt underneath it all, how hard it was for me to keep down the fierce flood that always seemed threatening to break loose.

I thought I was cooler and more used to it, but the sight of some cases brought tears into my—deep in my breast a fire, a burning flame, a pervading Christ-like benevolence, tenderness, and sympathy. The wrecks of so many dear young men are terrible, and make one’s heart ache; really nothing we call trouble seems worth talking about.

I encouraged the men to write, and myself, when call’d upon, wrote all sorts of letters for them, (including love letters, very tender ones.) And I took notes as I went along; often sat writing while the other fellow told his story.
My little books are precious because they bring back the pictures of agony and death—reassociate me with the scenes and human actors of that tragic period. Some days were more emotional than others. Then I would suffer all the extra horrors of my experience—I would try to write, blind, blind, with my own tears. But there’s a lot of that stuff I never put down anywhere—some of the best of it.

These thousands, and tens and twenties of thousands of young men, badly wounded, all sorts of wounds, operated on, pallid with diarrhea, languishing, dying with fever, pneumonia, etc., opened a new world somehow to me. I never before had my feelings so thoroughly and permanently absorbed, to the very roots, as by these huge swarms of dear, wounded, sick, dying boys.
How impressive was the fact of their likeness, their uniformity of essential nature—the same basic traits in them all—all of one instinct, addicted to the same vices, ennobled by the same virtues. All my prejudices were put to flight.

The hospitals put our feet right on the ground—put us into immediate association with the bottom facts of virtue. Here in these ranks of sick and dying young men, the best expression of character I have ever seen or conceived—
The dignity, the revelation of an exquisite courtesy,
I could say in the highest sense, propriety,
As in the doing of necessary unnamable things, always done with exquisite delicacy,
Extreme considerateness, open-handedness, generosity,
Never vulgar, without greediness, no flummery, no frivolity,
An undertone of sweetest comradeship and human love, threading its steady thread inside the chaos,
Responding electric and without fail to affection,
Ever calm, radical in all, beautiful in all.

I have seen many wounded soldiers die after dread suffering, meeting their death with steady composure—have seen their lives pass off with smiles, and often with curious readiness. Of the many I have seen die, or known of, I have not seen or heard of one who met death with any terror. Here I see, not at intervals, but quite always, how certain, man, how he holds himself cool and unquestioned master above all pains and bloody mutilations. It is immense, the best thing of all.

This then, what frightened us all so long!
Why it is put to flight with ignominy, a mere stuffed scarecrow of the fields—
0 death where is thy sting?
0 grave where is thy victory?

NEXT: POSTWAR REFLECTIONS

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